by Ulff Lehmann
“The Eye of Traksor?” Kildanor asked.
“Aye, if anyone can tell me what the Scales is going on, it will be them,” Drangar replied. Why did it feel as if the Fiend was squirming?
“What about Gwen?”
“What about who?” he asked, confused. There was a concerned look in Kildanor’s eyes, now replaced by mirth.
The Chosen snorted. “Oh, man, you don’t even know her name. She’s been trying to talk to you for days now, and you’ve been trying not to ogle her too much.”
“Her name’s Gwen?” Now she had a name. It made things more complicated.
“Why the long face?” Kildanor prompted. “It’s obvious she likes you. She’s been trying to get to learn more about you. You should be happy.”
His head snapped around. “Why?”
“Because in all this darkness you have one light shining for you, at you.”
“She doesn’t know me.” He resumed running the whetstone down the blade.
“I wonder if you know yourself.” Drangar tried to shut out the warrior’s voice, in vain. “Why wallow in the darkness? If you don’t let any sort of light into your life, you will be trapped. Trust me, I know of these things.”
“You have no one in the back of your mind,” he hissed. “That thing, I can feel it. It’s waiting, waiting. I don’t want what happened to Hesmera happen to her.”
“And who says it will?”
“What if what you say really happens? What if she and I fall in love? Lovers quarrel. What if the Fiend uses this anger to slip in and regain control with me waking from it only after she is torn to pieces? I don’t want to live with that, be it with her or anyone else.”
For a moment it seemed as if Kildanor struggled for words, and then, “She has a name.”
“And my saying it, can’t it make things more difficult?” He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt anyone!”
“When you knew that it was not yourself who had killed Hesmera, you found it easy to forgive yourself and begin to live again,” the Chosen retorted. “What makes this different?”
“I…” He fell silent. “The…” he began anew, and again the words failed him. “When…” It was useless. He didn’t know what to say.
“There is no difference, other than you knowing how to avoid it happening again, or at least reining it in.” One look told him Kildanor believed what he was saying. “Why not take strength from a person willing to give it? What are you afraid of? Rejection?” Drangar shook his head. “Being understood?” Again, a denial. “Being loved?” This time he hesitated. “You wonder if anyone can love you. Not if you don’t find it in you to accept you aren’t responsible for the things this Fiend does. Not if you can’t love yourself. Aye, as long as you are incapable of loving yourself you won’t be able to truly live and be loved in return.”
“But Sir Úistan,” Drangar argued.
“What of him?”
“He and his people, they saw what I…”
“No, not what you did, what it did!” Kildanor snapped. “He knows you saved his family, got burned because of that. He doesn’t understand how one who so selflessly rescued his wife and daughter could rip through a score of people, leaving their bodies scattered.”
“But we…”
“Well, we know what is controlling you, not why, but it wasn’t your mind and heart doing these things, or?” It was hard to look Lesganagh’s warrior in the eye. Drangar knew he was right; at least it felt like he was speaking the truth.
He tried again. “But we…”
“Don’t know what it really is?” the Chosen finished for him. “Well, we can always ask the old coot Coimharrin again.” That brought a slight smile to his face. “So you remember, eh?” It was hard to forget the Upholder.
“Managed to put some confidence in me the last time.”
“No.” The reply surprised him.
“No?”
“He just confirmed the truth, you did the rest.”
“Could you please ask Lord Cahill to join us?” he said.
“Why not ask him yourself? Worried?” Kildanor stood and smacked his head. “Well then, just this once I’ll fight your battles. All right?” Drangar nodded his thanks.
The look Sir Úistan gave him was far from benevolent. Neither was it wicked or angry. If he were to chance a guess, he would have called it reserved, suspicious maybe. That Lord Cahill had come at all made him hope he could talk to the man. Without preamble, Sir Úistan motioned him to remain seated. Then, arms crossed in front of his chest, the noble stood before him, waiting.
Drangar hated looking up at him, but knew the concerns Sir Úistan harbored were based on what had occurred in Ondalan. “Milord,” he began. “I wish I could explain what happened. I can’t, not really.” The nobleman’s brows bunched in a frown. Ignoring his discomfort as much as possible, he continued, “I know it is hard to believe, but I was not in command of either my body or my senses.”
“And you expect me to trust your word?”
“Your daughter trusted me when I told her of what really happened the night Hesmera died,” he retorted, unsure whether he sounded too hostile, or too apologetic. A glance at Kildanor showed no reaction; so far, he was walking the right path. He just hoped the Chosen would intervene should he make a mistake.
“Aye, she did at that.”
“I still cannot remember the incident in our house in Cherkont that day, there are only my nightmares and what I was shown by the apparition.” Before Lord Cahill could reply, he said, “I remember parts of what happened in Ondalan, although only through a veil, as a spectator if you will. If my body was a wagon, know that I did not steer.” An almost imperceptible nod by Kildanor showed the Chosen approved of this slight alteration of the tale. There was no point telling the noble all that was going on.
“You’re telling me someone else did all that?”
“Yes.”
“Why should I accept this story of yours?”
“Because it’s the truth.” The answer sounded weak even to his ears, and it was. The nobleman’s expression didn’t change, the furrows on his brow became more pronounced. “Why would I lie?” Drangar asked. “If Upholder Coimharrin verified my tale, how could I still be lying?”
That brought a change to Lord Cahill’s face. It seemed minute, yet he felt he had finally made progress. Maybe the nobleman’s set opinion was wavering. “You did save my family.”
He glanced at Kildanor who gave an encouraging nod. “On the field I was a killer, but I was never uncaring,” he said. “Their faces still haunt me.”
“So, who is pulling your strings?” Sir Úistan voiced the same question he had worried about for three days. His shrug, he hoped, was viewed as desolate, not casual. There was nothing casual about the entire situation. “You don’t know either.” Thankfully Lord Cahill understood his gesture the way it was meant.
“We made some guesses, milord,” Kildanor intervened.
Sir Úistan turned as if he only now remembered the Chosen was still with them. “Have you now? And what conclusion have you reached?”
“None, unfortunately,” said Drangar.
“I thought as much.”
“Nothing conclusive anyway,” Kildanor added. “There’s only one thing we do know, or at least think we know.”
“And what is that?”
“Blind anger opens the door for whatever was controlling him.” The Chosen nodded in his direction, and the stare Lord Cahill gave him was as intense as those he had received as a child.
“Is that true?” the nobleman asked.
“Aye, we think so,” he said. “In the turret room with your wife and Neena, it was different. My need to protect the women kept the fury in check.” He thought a moment, and added, “I couldn’t allow the bastard to take my last links to Hesmera.” Saying her name was less painful than it had been a month ago. It was still there, dull, sometimes throbbing, but it was bearable now.
“You didn’t break out of tha
t bubble alone then?” Lord Cahill asked.
He looked from one man to the other, and saw the same question plain on the Chosen’s face. “No,” he replied.
“You never mentioned that,” Kildanor prompted.
“I never made the connection until now. Never really made the connection.”
“So as long as we don’t royally piss you off, you’ll be all right?” Sir Úistan asked.
“I should think so.”
“I want you to look me in the eyes and repeat what you just said,” the nobleman insisted.
“Why?” asked Drangar. “You’re no Upholder; you can’t see the truth like they do.”
Cahill’s grin was as threatening as it was confident. “No, but I am a damn good judge of character, and while my mind reels with what happened in Ondalan, I struggle with what I knew of you,” he said. “I want to know if my gut is right.”
There was no mirth in the man’s voice, just plain, sharp steel, and Drangar knew Sir Úistan already believed him. He looked the nobleman straight in the eyes and said, “I was not in control in the village, and as long as I remain calm, in control, something like this will not happen again.”
Lord Cahill turned to Kildanor and said, “You know, all of this would be even less frightening if he didn’t keep sharpening his blades all the time.”
Drangar looked at his hands, astonished. He hadn’t noticed he was still whetting the sword. How long had he been doing it? The Chosen’s laugh, thankfully, broke the tension. No wonder everyone saw him as a mad killer! A quick inspection showed the weapon was as sturdy as ever, but when he drew his belt knife, he saw the breadth was less than it had been even a week ago. And the edge was so fine and sharp he had no doubt it could split a hair. “It calms me,” he offered weakly.
Kildanor snorted. “Try knitting.”
At this Sir Úistan boomed with laughter so irresistible that Drangar couldn’t help but join in. In a way he would have welcomed sitting there with thread and needles instead of a whetstone and a pair of blades; at least he would lose the image of a single-minded killer.
Their mirth drew attention, and soon he was the center of ridicule as the Chosen’s suggestion was absorbed and refined by Lord Cahill’s retainers. The Chanastardhians, having been with them only for a short period, had in all likelihood noticed his obsessive sharpening and joined in the surging laughter. Being ridiculed felt good. For far too long his life had been in the shadows and, unlike the children of his past, the people here in the cave laughed with him, not at him.
Consciously, Drangar sheathed his sword and put the sharpening stone away. Then, wiping tears from his eyes, he looked at Kildanor and said, “You wouldn’t happen to have some needles and thread with you, would you?”
For a moment the Chosen retained his calm, then the combined laughter of Danastaerians and Chanastardhians shook the cave once more. He was laughing so hard he barely noticed the companionable slap on the shoulder Lord Cahill gave him. A look up at the noble showed a man from whose back a tremendous weight had been lifted. Sir Úistan gave him a brief nod then walked away, still laughing.
When he saw her, Gwen he corrected himself, pass Lord Cahill on his way back to the main cave, he almost felt his eyes pop out of their sockets. The good humor abated, but a quick look at Kildanor and the Chosen’s encouraging smile helped him keep his calm and retain some mirth. As she drew closer, he discerned a bundle in her right hand. Now, with only a few feet separating them, Drangar understood why she was grinning like a lunatic. The bundle was a pair of needles and yarn.
“Thought you might enjoy it,” Gwen said.
He spoke the first thing that came to his mind. “Drangar, Drangar Ralgon.”
“I know,” she replied, handing him the bundle.
“And he, let me assure you, knows nothing of knitting,” Kildanor interrupted. Drangar was glad the Chosen had done so, because he felt rather silly being so tongue-tied. All he could do was to stare, Gwen’s bundle, still in her hand, hovered inches from his face.
“I guess I can teach him,” she said. “Whatever little I know of knitting.” At first Drangar, and apparently everyone but Gwen, Anne Cirrain and Kildanor, thought this was a splendid finale to a good joke. Laughter rumbled through the cave once more, but when she remained standing before him, serious but for the smile on her lips, he understood she meant it. Uncertain he looked at the Chosen who mouthed something that could have only been an encouragement. He smiled and nodded, still too afraid to speak, worried that the only thing he would be able to force out of his mouth other than his name would be incoherent babbling. That he hadn’t behaved thusly when meeting Hesmera didn’t bother him at all.
Soon the others realized Gwen was serious also, and the laughter died down. And although many eyes were still on them, first and foremost those of Lord Cahill and the Cirrain woman, life inside the cave returned to its normalcy. Kildanor still stood at the place he had occupied since joining him, unmoving. Something in the wistful look he cast at Gwen and him gave him pause.
The Chosen said, “Damn, you cannot imagine how lucky you are. Both of you.” Then he turned and left.
Gwen said something. He hardly heard her. All he did was stare at her, feeling like a boy just come of age on the first day of spring. “What?” he asked, feeling as if he was already losing himself in her blue eyes.
There was a sharp pain in his arm, drawing his attention away from her. “I said that I will teach you how to knit,” Gwen repeated sternly, yet even though his attention was on the hole left in his tunic by a needle he could tell she was smiling. The bundle waved before his eyes. “This is what you have to focus on, understood?”
Later, when the roll of the dice and the cheers of the warriors bathed the cavern with sound, Drangar realized, for the first time, how truly difficult knitting really was. But even though he struggled to get fingers, needles, and thread into a coherent working unit, he was glad, for Gwen was teaching him. Soon any thought of sharpening a blade had gone. Needle and thread were enough. It really was a struggle, but her company, patience and humor kept him trying.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Drangar felt the Fiend seething with impotent rage. He knew the peace he now felt wouldn’t last, couldn’t last. But he also knew that with Gwen at his side he stood a much better chance of remaining in control of his body.
CHAPTER 17
“She seems to enjoy herself,” Paddy commented, as they watched Drangar Ralgon struggle through the first, tedious row of stitches.
Anne would have liked to say the younger woman didn’t know what she was doing, but the fact of it was that Gwen had very well proved she was able to make up her own mind, and keep her head on her shoulders. Every warrior helping in the ambush spoke highly of the girl—woman, she reminded herself. Even her cousin praised Gwen’s levelheadedness. Still, the rumors of Ralgon tearing through Ondalan’s conquerors persisted. Had it been one or two people talking, she would have dismissed it, but it seemed as if every one of Sir Úistan’s retainers told the same story. Anne knew in her heart that this person was trouble. The feeling had none of the impulsive trappings of jealousy; she knew there was nothing about this maniac she considered attractive. No, her gut had warned her about the blood-caked man even before Lord Cahill’s retainers had talked about the trail of corpses he had left in his wake. That he had later buried them in cairns hardly changed the fact that he was a man not to be trusted or relied upon.
“Jealous?” Paddy teased; that much was obvious from the tone of his voice.
“Bullshit,” she retorted. “He’s dangerous.”
“Obsessive, crazy, somehow more than a man,” Paddy added. “Aye, he is that.”
“He isn’t good for her.”
Beside her Paddy straightened. They both had lounged near the fire, somewhat separated, as the odors inside the cavern grew rather rank. Not even the burning wood, which thankfully was dry enough to only give off a minimum of smoke, could dispel the stench of dozens of
unwashed bodies. The straw they had found in another part of the cave complex prevented the horses from flooding the place, but the animals’ urine added to the vile aroma. He turned to stare at her. “And who made you Lawspeaker?”
“All he’s been doing for the past few days, when he wasn’t ogling her, was to whet his blades,” she retorted. “Given how he was when we first saw him, that pretty much says killer, doesn’t it?”
“You look, but never really see, cousin,” he said, shaking his head. What was that all about? Of course, she saw things. Her face must have displayed her anger because Paddy chuckled.
“What?” she snapped.
“Nothing,” he replied, still smirking.
Now she felt fury rise. In the past, whenever Paddy had mocked her, it had been with good reason; she was the last person to deny that. But with this butcher, how could he be so blind? “What are you laughing at? I’m right, he is dangerous!”
“Dangerous, maybe,” he answered. “They used to call him Scythe.”
“It’s no wonder, given the way he dealt with Kirrich’s warriors.” She vaguely remembered tavern-tales of a mercenary who had supposedly been blessed by Lesganagh. “And?”
“Have you ever looked at his eyes?” Paddy asked.
“Padraigh Cirrain, what the fuck are you talking about?”
He put on his mocking face, lips curling in disdain. Gods, how she hated him doing that! “You can see it, even now,” he said, nodding in Ralgon’s direction.
She gazed at the man’s struggle with needles and yarn. “What about it? Knitting is a pain, I know, I’ve tried.”
“Godsdamnit, you are as perceptive as a mole,” he groaned. “Even now, see! There! He laughs, but the mirth never really reaches his eyes.”
